


After

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, bit of Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 22:28:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2789996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of Vadim--of being incarcerated, run ragged, fooled, beaten, and nearly blown into pieces. d'Artagnan is exhausted and... disconnected. Athos is there.</p><p>Inspired by a lovely fanart by Kaciart on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After

**Author's Note:**

> Small Athagnan fic inspired by [this lovely piece of fanart](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/76781397371) on tumblr.

There’s a sound like a distant scream in d’Artagnan’s ears, never-ending and tortured, as though Vadim’s bombs have cracked open the earth and hell is seeping through.

It nearly drowns Vadim’s last words: “It was a good trick,” he says. “It should’ve worked.”

The sick knot at the pit of d’Artagnan’s stomach tightens as he realises just how much he had been at the mercy of this madman; that from the moment that he’d been thrown in the same cell, Vadim had been playing with him, much like he’d done with his compatriots. “It nearly did,” he says, and the truth of it extends its roots through fear and nestles somewhere in humiliation. One man’s hubris and his own pure, dumb luck—they are the reason he stands and breathes, while Vadim lies splayed lifeless against the rocks, the gold doubloon in his open hand glinting in the harsh light.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring, until he feels Porthos’ arm across his back, gently guiding him away. Aramis is upon him next, appearing in his vision as though he has popped up in a dream, and he holds d’Artagnan’s chin and eyes him critically.

“You do not deserve to be among us,” Aramis says. “Are you burning yet, d’Artagnan?”

d’Artagnan starts, looks up sharply. “What?” he says, but he can hardly hear his own voice over the din in his ears, a weak whisper against the roar of an inferno—

“—shock; he is better served by—” He catches Aramis’ voice as it rushes in and out, like waves against a shoreline, “—garrison, Porthos and I will—”

d’Artagnan will never remember what happened next; he will tell himself that he should’ve at least remembered riding the horse back into the city with Athos, but hell is seeping further and further into the air until his world’s saturated with it; there are colours, and shapes, and the screaming, oh _god_ the screaming—he is being held in this world by nothing more than a warm, firm grip around his waist, and he slumps into it, nearly senseless from exhaustion.

When hell finally recedes, d’Artagnan finds himself in Athos’ apartments, sitting on Athos’ bed.

“I take it that you are back with us.”

d’Artagnan springs to his feet at Athos’ voice, only for the world to waver and dim at the edges. A strong hand clutches his shoulder as he sways. “I’m sorry,” he says as he regains his composure, “I didn’t—I shouldn’t be here. I don’t mean to—”

“And where do you propose to go?” Athos asks, wryly amused. “Back to the city streets, where you’re still a wanted criminal? Or perhaps you will go back to Madame Bonacieux and faint at her feet again? She told me,” he adds, at d’Artagnan’s grimace. He sits on the bed, draws a pail of water close, and dips a clean strip of cloth in it. “It is prudent for you to stay here until your name is officially cleared.”

He takes d’Artagnan’s hands in his and pushes back the sleeves. A sudden burning pain ignites in his wrists, and d’Artagnan hisses and draws his hands away. But it’s too late—Athos has seen the abraded skin around his wrists, from the rope that had been rough enough to tear grooves through his skin and make him bleed.

For a moment, Athos just sits there, looking stricken, while d’Artagnan contemplates running out the door, perhaps to the garrison, perhaps even all the way to Gascony, because, honestly, he doesn’t really know what he’s even trying to achieve here—

Athos grabs d’Artagnan’s hands again before his thoughts can go any further. “How did this happen?” he asks, wetting the cloth again.

“Vadim found me out,” d’Artagnan says through the lump in his throat. “Knocked me out and tied me to, uh,” he laughs, and it sounds hollow and weak, even to his own ears, “several barrels of gunpowder. Just about escaped before I got blown to pieces.”

Athos is silent as he bends over the d’Artagnan’s wrists, and somehow the silence is even more damning than any verbal condemnation. He touches the cloth to the wounds and gently wipes away the dirt and dust and blood. d’Artagnan’s nostrils flare as he fights against making sounds of pain—there is only so much humiliation he can bear in one day.

“I apologise,” he says when he can bear the quiet no longer, “I had not read Vadim as well I thought I did, and I let him use me to lead you astray. It’s hardly something you expect from one aspiring to be a Musketeer, and I understand if—”

“d’Artagnan.” Athos drops the cloth aside and merely holds d’Artagnan’s hands in his. “Let me assure you that you acquitted yourself in this mission better than any aspiring Musketeer I have ever known. My only regret is that I doubted you, and that we couldn’t protect you when you needed it.” He bends his head, and his lips ghost over d’Artagnan’s savaged wrists, his beard brushing his skin in a way that makes d’Artagnan smile.

“Th-thank you,” d’Artagnan says, taken aback.

Athos smiles, and there is the slightest pressure of his lips against d’Artagnan’s wrists, then his fingers, before he turns for the wet cloth once again.


End file.
